Like a fallen star, shop there it laid precariously amongst the rubbish: beaming, prescription the confection majesty of the Hostess Twinkie. Perhaps it was my plummeting blood sugar but that golden, cream-centered son of a bitch was actually shinning, shining like bling-bling chingy-chingy.

Apparitions of Music video hip-hop hoes twerk and toss glitter from their thong-clad asses, producing a beautiful halo of fluorescent metal shavings and booty perspiration at 300 frames per second. Nearby, sir mixes a lot uses a bottomless Slurpee cup as a funnel to spray dem bitches from an open fire hydrant.

An obese beat falls like darkness.

“Don no what ya missin’ -ing sprayin’ that ass and makin’ it glisten -ing, anaconda fodder make(ing) ‘em holla cant take ya for lobster less Donald’s puts ‘em up for a dollah… Uh”.

Again, I attribute the fantastic mirage to low blood sugar, a spot of mustard or a bit of undigested beef…

A commencement of digression is swift and tailored.

Some misguided or careless soul had tossed the Hostess flagship into the shop garbage can. It was partially in its cellophane and its oils partially hydrogenated — positioned just so: eluding the greasy, nasty doo-doo butter rags and tobacco spit bottles that populate the can.

I surveyed my surroundings for signs of hidden cameras or other candid shenanigans. The coast was clear.

Time and space melted around us, the Twinkie and I. My pants began to fit tighter. I reached carefully into the bin, my wrist a spelunkers precise descent to the golden and cum-filled pastry. I gingerly grasped the Precious and carefully raised it from its filth-riddled nesting. Somewhere between a lobby toy crane game and the metal contacts evasion of the Operation game, I excavated my treasure. For a moment I stand stoically lit in silhouette.

I beheld the Precious and brushed phantom debris from its packaging and blew invisible particles from the cake surface in alternating gestures. I delighted in the crinkle-crinkle of the packaging. I marveled at the graphics and design. I examined the nutritional table and ingredients manifest.. Oh, my; such long-winded polysyllabism, Lord Whimsy would blush. I don’t recognize many of these words. It reads similarly to a can of Edge shaving gel.

I took a twinky-twinky whiff. It smells vaguely of hand soap. My mouth salivated and pants grew snugger still. I slowly raised the cake to my mouth and closed my eyes in reciprocation with its approach. I take a modest bite which immediately ignites my olfactory senses and prompts a successive liberal chomp.

My teeth collapse the fluffy yeast labored pockets of yellow #5 laden cake. Quasi vanilla paste contrasts, then compliments and ultimately integrates the mash. My pupils dilate fully. I chew in wide sweeping chews like a cow on cud. A warm tingle cascades up and down my arms as my pulse quickens. The fluffy cake regresses to batter and spittle kneading over hedonistic gums and teeth. The room becomes increasingly hot, too hot for comfort and perhaps even TV.

I open my eyes to see my familiar work place inexplicably transformed into a cramped boiler room-like hallway with bleeding walls. Hisses of steam and random machinery are audible over the roar of adrenaline borne blood pressure pounding in my ears. A pair of red glowing orbs manifest through a curtain of steam followed by a spry mouth of piranha teeth festooned with webbings of thick saliva. Fight or flight yields to paralysis by fear. A bulbous alcohol addled red nose rests between the eyes and teeth. Thick tufts of orange bushy hair jut perpendicular to the horrible pale face. I am tackled, Screaming and thrashing, I am clawed and stripped. Screaming and thrashing — mauled and eviscerated… The clown eats my penis.

18974 out of 90210 burgers.

]]>http://www.lovelyburger.com/?feed=rss2&p=1930“Tree of Life” and Indian Delite at Market East by Dr. Mary Burgershttp://www.lovelyburger.com/?p=188
http://www.lovelyburger.com/?p=188#commentsTue, 14 Jun 2011 20:18:44 +0000maryburgershttp://www.lovelyburger.com/?p=188Tree of Life

dir. Terrence Malick

The Tree of Life is a CGI comedy romp starring Sean Penn as Loci the Talking Raptor and Brad Pitt as a strict navy officer. They form an unlikely bond after another raptor (played by you) intervenes on their fight over the significance or insignificance of all events in life, clinic which is displayed through a contrast between present day events and the creation of all life and time. You resolve it with laughter, try song, salve and an hour long perfume commercial, directed by Calvin Klein, complete with the principal actors whispering abstract narratives over flashes of sun-dappled imagery.

You lucky raptor you, you are there to bear witness to every event, every event that has ever happened in all of time: you watch the original mitochondrion merging with a cell, you are there running with your brothers through cornfields in Texas, you witness a plesiosaur bleeding into prehistoric waters. Each of these events is handled with equal weight by Malick’s camera. The merging of hands at a funeral is as big and vivid as a piece of earth breaking off and creating a magma-fall.

You are always looking up with Malick, up at stained glass spiral ceilings in a church, up at the tops of trees blooming in spring, up at your red-headed strong-willed mother who never thought she would have a life revolving around four boys. She whispers delicate entreaties to God, and soon her oldest son does the same. It seems stilted and precocious when he asks why God let a young boy die, but it becomes more meaningful as you see him ask the same questions of his father.

Though the mother opens the movie by saying the weather will always find a reason to be unhappy, the entire movie is vibrant, all sticky southern summer nights, no grayness or rain, just fields and rivers and rope-swings.

Enough about you, Mr. CGI Raptor. Back to me.

I considered it a great compliment to the movie that, after I exited the theater disoriented and crying, an older woman came up to me and asked about the single most important plot detail. She had missed the first ten minutes of the movie, and still thought it was spectacular.

I would really like to see it again, but next time allow myself to fall asleep more often. It is not a boring movie. Every shot of every scene is careful and deliberate and beautiful. But it feels like fragments of memories you might see before you fall asleep, and to go in and out of those dreamlike states seems to be as valid and true a way of watching it as enduring it straight through.

6 out of 6 burgers

I stumbled out of the movie theater wishing I could die right then and there but somehow managed to get myself on the EL and back to Market East Station. And I was hungry.

INDIAN DELITE: MARKET EAST STATION

non-vegetarian curry platter

like $10 with a mango lassi

For some reason I was like “No, it is not a bad idea at all to get food court Indian food!” I went up and asked for the non-vegetarian curry with a side of mint sauce. I did not ask for a platter. I got a platter anyway! And no mint sauce. Then I asked for mango juice and the lady gave me a $4 mango lassi instead.

I couldn’t be sure, but I think the mango lassi had gone off. It tasted much more sour than I think should have been right. I kept sipping at it to make sure, and I realized if I continued doing that I was putting myself at risk for food poisoning. “But it was $4! And I didn’t ask for it!” I guess I finally decided having my stomach pumped would be more expensive than a $4 lassi and I threw it out.

The platter came with vegetarian curry (which I guess sounds exactly the same as “non-vegetarian curry) and some cheese in some kind of cream sauce, some rice, and a samosa. The curry was fairly nondescript with some cauliflowers and carrots and peas. I guess most of her customers are not Indian so it was not spicy at all. The cheese stuff was also ok. The samosa was kind of dry and gross. Mostly I just kept crying about how all events in life are the same level of significant and I wondered if someone would make a 2 hour perfume ad about my life if I died of food poisoning right then. I should have gone to get bahn mi!

We came on a busy evening. We ordered separate entrées; I got sauteed chicken with lemongrass sauce on rice, and it was to be very good. The chicken was among green bell peppers in a heap, with transparent brown sauce on them. The pieces of chicken were flat and rounded, and would have made good skipping stones if they were made out of rocks. The pieces of pepper were big and burly, so that I would usually take bites that were only composed of pepper and separate bites that were only composed of chicken. There was dry rice next to them bearing a mound shape. All was presented on an oblong plate. I had long, thin utensils. Everything was perfectly formed.

The pieces of chicken had a remarkable and magical texture that seemed special and unusual for chicken. They were bright and sharp, and squishy in a way that was good and not at all bad. Maybe I should say instead that they were slimy. Briny! They were briny! Not a briny flavor, but a briny texture. And that was really good. I guess what that amounts to is that the chicken had a quality that fish frequently has. And it did seem that way. The chicken was definitely chickenlike, and if you had given it to me and asked me to identify what kind of meat it was, I probably would have answered that it was chicken, but if you had given it to me and told me that it was fish, or if I had perhaps mistakenly gathered that it was fish from some kind of misunderstanding, then I think there is a real chance that I would have believed it to be fish when I was eating it. Like once my mom made a peach cobbler, and I somehow ended up believing that I knew it was apple cobbler, and I ate it and totally bought the peaches as being soft cooked apples and thought of them as that the whole time I was eating the cobbler. Then I said, “Mmm, Mom, that was a great apple cobbler!” and my mom said, “What?!?” and I didn’t say anything because I was confused and had to rejigger myself and knew something wasn’t right. She said, “It is NOT made of apples.” I thought back and realized that of COURSE those were peaches and tasted like only peaches can possibly taste. I was mortified. “What have I done?” thought I. My mom said that my confusion had taken away all the satisfaction of having me enjoy her peach cobbler which was in truth very wonderful and yummy and that her satisfaction would not come to completion until I officially resolved the disconnect by saying, “Mmm, Mom, that was a great peach cobbler!” So I said, “Mmm, Mom, that was a great zucchini casserole!” She said that her happiness was gone forever.

The peppers were whole and good; it was nice that they were not as light and floaty and kind of soapy as ordinary bell peppers are, which might not have gone quite right with this meal. Instead they were a little dark-tasting, with a little flavor of what I could easily pass off to myself as sesame.

We also had some mango salad and could not find the mango! But there it had been, all along. The little orange shavings around the edges. There were also white shavings and other long white things that must have been little root tubes, and lettuce and almonds. It was boring until we put the sharp and runny sauce on it. Then it was interesting, with a wide-open bitterness and cold, moist spiciness, like a basement!

I got a thick-consistency jackfruit drink because I had once had a piece of jackfruit for my 13-year age ceremony, and the piece had tasted like bubblegum and eating it had felt like eating a human ear. As anticipated, the drink may very well for all I know have had the exact consistency of a thick-consistency drink made out of a human ear. The taste, however, was not like bubblegum. It was very mild, and like a melon, but with no sourness. The drink, like the piece before it, was yellow—bright and pure. Mary had something sweeter and better, just like the subsequent time we got fruity drinks together.

In closing, I do not know what things taste like, and so trying anything and imagining what it is made of and why it might taste the way it does brings me into an exciting world of pretend. But I just know that my meal was good! I can feel it in my heart! And after all, I do not need to make sense of its delicious taste. This place is great. Try eating there if you are nearby and if your mood is compatible with it. If you do, you, too, may be as happy as I!

And we had a really good time! Of course. I have had so many good times with Mary. She is a good one!

I promised to leave in all tangents, supportive and otherwise. Upon reading I hope your imagination will actively reinforce all weak clauses, negate grammatical errors and detect an inexplicable lemon-fresh scent which you will find puzzling – but pleasant.
Enjoy.

Ode to a Waffle
-R. Alan Bellosi

At the behest of an engaging creature, I have endeavored to critique a waffle. The first obstacle I encounter is the stark realization that critiques are in fact not of an object but an introspective for the observer, whereby I’ll reveal nothing about a waffle but everything about myself. It is my impression of a waffle. Ultimately, it is the reader who must decide whether I enjoyed a diner house waffle with an attractive, captivating woman or, in a deranged state: consumed a dumpster-gym-sock behind a diner in the company of a toothless crack-slag, possibly wielding a penis. Diners are horribly patriotic places. They are encrusted in homeland colors with mascot depictions of anthropomorphic eagles drinking whiskey and driving pick-up trucks. It is in this setting that I encounter a Belgian Waffle.

The waffle batter is a composite of bleached flour, mammal lactation, poultry ovulation and baking soda, with trace amounts of insects and other unappetizing anomalies of processing. This batter is then poured over a rotund bi-fold grill with cubic indentations where it is oxidized. The cubic indentations create exquisite little pockets for holding maple flavored corn syrup and whipped butter. On the side there are hermetically sealed packets of maple-masquerade syrup, and
hermetically sealed and pasteurized packets of synthetic fruit flavored mush derived from used condoms and tar, presumably. These are entirely unnecessary however, as the waffle comes with a choice of real fruit, forged in the soil of the earth.

I chose banana (or in Espanola: “banana”) and my lovely dining companion chose blueberry. The banana reserves had been poorly inventoried and had been depleted; despondently, I digressed into a strawberry consolation. The Waffles arrived; like consoling-Visine for waffle-longing eyes they were. Gorgeous dollops of Whipped cream, confectioned sugar –biutiful powder strewn about like superfluous stripper-bait cocaine at a slick-ass executive soiree… and the taste? It’s a waffle covered in syrup, whipped butter, whipped cream and confection sugar. How the fuck you think it tasted? It was like a mouth full of hot sex.

I consumed ¾ or 75% of my waffle serving, most academic grading standards would grant me a solid “C” for this achievement; I however received and an “F” for my efforts. I sympathize with this jeering
because it is a devastating waste when one reflects on the many-many hands it takes for a fully prepared waffle to get to one’s plate. The briefest of summaries involves a lengthy and very involved
relationship with live stock, taxes, human resource departments, farming, immigration, taxes, fuel, oil, war, stock exchange, prostitutes, scumbag politicians, more taxes, unions, product packaging, graphic designers, a manager to do coke in the office, more prostitutes, employing diner staff including servers and cooks, another manager to do coke in the office, drug cartels, coke mules,
more taxes, stocking deliveries, prep work, electricity and so on. It is an abundantly elaborate orchestration utilizing the entire world economy just so some skinny bastard can eat ¾ of a waffle.
This was a very memorable waffle. The experience left me in a euphoric state of awe and on the cusp of insulin shock; all plans of murdering my recently acquainted companion had been dissolved.

]]>http://www.lovelyburger.com/?feed=rss2&p=1830Music Americans Used To Be Into For Some Reason, Part 1http://www.lovelyburger.com/?p=180
http://www.lovelyburger.com/?p=180#commentsTue, 14 Jun 2011 20:06:00 +0000maryburgershttp://www.lovelyburger.com/?p=180Reviews of Music Americans Used to be into for Some ReasonPART I

By D. Philip McToo-expensive-mini-burger

Americans will certainly enjoy this look back at some music you might have been aware of way back when. While some of these bands might still be around, help I’m almost positive that no one cares about them anymore. If you are part of my international audience, pills which could theoretically exist, America doesn’t have a very long history so, relatively speaking, these are some of the most important musicians of all time in the USA, and you should know all about them.

Limp Bizkit

Fred Durst. Also some girls who were not in Limp Bizkit.

Limp Bizkit was a band of sorts headed by Fred Durst who sang all of their songs, wore a red hat, and I don’t know what else. There was also a goofy-looking bassist and some other guys who were not in the least bit interesting.

They had a song called “Nookie.” “Nookie” might refer to sex because I think the chorus was like, “I did it all for the nookie,” but then the next line was something like, “so you can take that cookie and stick up your YEAH.” It was not a good lyric, but I can’t really blame him since there isn’t much else that rhymes with “nookie.” It was an okay try, anyway.

The only other two songs I can remember were called “Rollin’” and “Break Stuff,” which were both songs about being angry. These songs appealed to suburban kids like me, who had a lot to be pissed off about all of the time. I probably listened to them while I did my homework. I don’t remember.

Once a sex tape involving Fred Durst ended up on the internet, but only Fred Durst thought that someone might intentionally download or transfer it. The internet didn’t even want the video, and in the end, it was not something anyone could say they had ever seen or cared about.

Slipknot

Slipknot’s drummer, whose long nose would swing about suggestively as he played the drums

Slipknot came to America at a time when we all really needed a metal band to like, but we did not want their faces to be visible at all. Slipknot probably had at least a singer, a guitarist, a bassist, a drummer, and for some reason I feel like there was a DJ guy who scratched records or something. But I’m not sure if a DJ is something a metal band would ever have. If you care, you can look it up. I don’t. They had a song called “Wait and Bleed,” and this song was less grating than all their other songs so it became really popular. Slipknot probably existed before releasing this song, and the people who liked them before they became popular probably complained a lot about how the band sold out and felt really down in the dumps about this betrayal. This is not something I have any memory of, but rather something I know Americans like to do with any band that doesn’t achieve national popularity within several days of the band’s coming into being.

So, yeah. This band always wore these spooky masks, which was a pretty edgy thing to do. We weren’t sure of their true identities and so everyone speculated that perhaps the members of Slipknot were actually living among us as our friends and neighbors and we didn’t even know it because we had no idea what they looked like. Anyway, I never bought any Slipknot albums, nor did I ever mosh outdoors in a field of mud and poop so I guess this wasn’t really my thing.

Marilyn Manson

Marilyn Manson. Twiggy (?) and drummer dude in the back, band members who no one has ever cared about at all.

Believe it or not, the United States of America was once a God-fearing, Christian nation, but Marilyn Manson single-handedly changed all of that through the power of song. At first some people didn’t like Marilyn Manson because they thought maybe he wasn’t that good, but then he released a single called “The Dope Show” and everyone in America thought it was awesome. Following the success of “The Dope Show,” a lot of people stopped celebrating Christmas and Easter and many elementary school children started rejecting socially-constructed gender norms. Around this time Africanized honey bees, or “killer bees,” were making their way across America, which in itself was pretty scary for most of us. So all in all it was a very difficult time.

Unsurprisingly, with the popularity of weirdos like Miley Cyrus, Justin Bieber, Katy Perry, etc., Marilyn Manson has lost a lot of the shock value he once had. A lot of parents even ended up feeling kind of bad for being so critical of his outlandish image because they realized his goth makeup actually served to make him look somehow less creepy, a fact that America became acutely aware of after seeing the movie Jawbreaker, in which Manson played the role of a guy who had well-groomed mustache but no make-up.

Insane Clown Posse

ICP: A real thing that people like

ICP consists of two guys who…

OK. God. Uh, one guy calls himself Violent J and the other one is Shaggy. They wear clown makeup whenever they perform or make any kind of appearance. They rap sort of? I have heard it said that Shaggy is “ninety-five percent of the duo’s talent,” and I really can’t imagine what that could possibly mean. I don’t think it was meant to be ironic.

Some people I guess feel that ICP is good or they just like clowns or I don’t know. They call themselves juggalos (the feminine form being “juggalette”) and wear hoodies and maybe put on clown makeup sometimes. I think there aren’t many juggalos/juggalettes left so I can only assume that most of them grew up and moved on to get PhDs and make positive contributions to society.

Oh, yeah. ICP had a feud with Eminem and so ICP made the song “Slim Anus,” a clever pun on “Slim Shady,” which is the nickname of Eminem’s alter-ego or something I don’t really get? Whatever. You’re probably wondering what the feud was about, but I’m not going to bore you with the details because I have no idea what they are. Basically, though, rappers are always feuding with each other over things that even the American public doesn’t really seem to care about.

I don’t know what has become of ICP, and I will not google them.

Final Ratings

Please don’t think these ratings have anything to do with music or talent or anything like that. They don’t.

Limp Bizkit: 2.5 out of 6 burgers

I kind of like Fred Durst because he never seemed like an absolutely terrible human being, which I’m not sure I can say for anyone else on this list. For that reason, I am giving Limp Bizkit some burgers.

Slipknot: 0 out of 6 burgers

I really just don’t like these guys at all.

Marilyn Manson: 3.5 burgers

He gave parents someone other than themselves to blame upon realizing that their children weren’t turning out so well–at a time when most American children really weren’t turning out so well.

Insane Clown Posse: .5 out of 6 burgers

I’m giving them half a burger because the part in “Miracles” where Shaggy goes, “fuckin’ magnets, how do they work?” makes me laugh a lot. I don’t know how magnets work either, Shaggy.

This movie actually uses the psychology to lead the viewer on a psycho-sexual journey through the mind of a ballerina, but in the end we learn that that ballerina’s mind is actually our own.

Before I go on, please be aware that although this is a movie review that I guess is supposed to make you decide if you want to see the movie, reading this will pretty much spoil the whole thing for you except some parts that I probably forgot happened or didn’t feel like writing about.

Anyway, Black Swan has clearly been inspired by some of the greatest psychological thrillers of all time such as probably only the Japanese anime, Perfect Blue. For those unfamiliar with the classic, Perfect Blue is the story of a young up-and-coming actress named Mima whose life spirals out of control as she is manipulated by her stalker, who actually believes herself to be the true or maybe just another, second Mima. There are actually two Mimas who believe they are one another when, in fact, they are aware that they are not actually each other because they occupy separate physical space, which is probably obvious even to people who are mentally unstable? And the stalker Mima maintained a blog that the real Mima thought was her own blog even though I’m not sure if the real Mima even knew how to start a blog, which I think used to be more complicated back then and maybe would require some basic knowledge of HTML or something? Though I guess she thought she actually did possess such skills or maybe she actually did? Otherwise I’m not sure why she would think it was her blog? It was a really good movie, and, like Black Swan, will surely captivate the mind of anyone who is inspired by movies that are cerebral and long with many thrills along the way.

Much like other movies of such high caliber, Black Swan begins by masterfully drawing the audience in with a series of events, which occur in roughly chronological succession. The main character, Nina (Natalie Portman) is a ballet dancer who wants to be famous and successful to whatever extent is possible for a ballerina in America, and she’s willing to do whatever it takes. Before long we realize that being a ballerina is no walk in the park, and Nina must spend grueling hours prepping her ballet slippers with her controlling, weird mother.

Upon hearing that the theater needs a lead for its newest production, Nina knows that this is her chance to finally prove her talent. However, a French guy doesn’t believe she is ready to take on the complex role, comprised of both the white and the black swans, which are two types of swan on completely opposite sides of the color spectrum. One day Nina bites the French guy when he tries to kiss her and so he decides to give her the role because he believes that biting someone is something a black swan might do.

At some point after getting the part, Nina is confronted by Winona Ryder, who seems to be making a comeback after not having been in any movies seen by me sinceMermaids with Cher or perhaps Alien Resurrection (logically it would have to be the more recent of the two). Honestly, I don’t remember Mermaids at all, but I’ve definitely seen it and I know Winona Ryder was in it even though I can’t really picture her character. Conflict ensues and a bitter Winona Ryder makes a scene and storms off, at which point she is basically not relevant to the plot anymore. Although there is a scene with her later that was messed up and used psychology to make the movie better and more psychological.

Indeed we soon discover that Nina’s mind, much like a mixed up Rubik’s Cube, is chaotic and crazy, and only through the perfect ballet performance can she twist it back so that each side only has squares that are the same color. But much like the algorithm or whatever that solves the Rubik’s Cube, it is difficult to do the part of the Black Swan. Even after trying several times, Nina could not do the Black Swan dance well enough.

Sensing Nina’s distress from the pressures of ballet, another ballerina, Lily (from That 70′s Show), takes Nina out for a night on the town. First they go to a bar and then Lily thinks it would be a good idea if they did some drugs. Nina declines because she is afraid that doing drugs might negatively influence her dancing the next day. After thinking about it, however, Nina realizes that she will actually have more fun if she does the drugs.

After doing the drugs, Nina has a lot of fun, and it becomes clear that her initial apprehensions were unfounded. Then Lily and Nina go home together and they make love. In the throes of pleasure, goose pimples appear on Nina’s skin in waves. They are not actually goose pimples, though, but featherless swan skin. This shows that Nina is becoming more and more like a swan because she has thought so much about swans while preparing for her role. Indeed, her mind is just swimming with swans.

The next day Nina was surprised to discover that Lily did not, in reality, go home with her the previous night, and it had all been a vivid and elaborate hallucination. Later (or whenever) there is some dialogue between some of the characters and the camera captures them at various angles and then Nina is convinced that Lily is after her part. Afraid that she would become the victim of fowl play, Nina begs the French guy to intervene and prevent Lily from stealing her role. He doesn’t do anything and then it is opening night.

Various things that have to do with the plot occur and there are several psychological thrills. Finally, the time for Nina to either sink or swim as the Black Swan has arrived. Nina dances with overwhelming passion and she is actually transformed into an anthropomorphic black swan (but not really).

All the people in the audience, who must be very interested in ballet and would only be happy to see the best ballet, clapped loudly and some even cheered and everyone seemed very impressed by Nina’s good job doing the Black Swan. All the other dancers surround Nina offstage to congratulate her, but then everyone sees that Nina is wounded and they know she might have to go to the hospital. Before or after this, Nina was like, “I was perfect,” obviously very satisfied that she danced so well at the end even though she fell once earlier. That is the end and we do not know if Nina continued to dance as passionately for all the countless times she would surely have to do this same performance in the future.

I give this movie stars for its high quality performances. Natalie Portman and the girl from That 70′s Show have several facial expressions which they use at all the contextually appropriate times. But actually they do not just both use the same expressions at the same time. Sometimes Natalie Portman might make a surprised face while the girl from That 70′s Show makes a serious face or whatever. That is pretty important in acting because maybe some actors or actresses who are less talented do it in a different, wrong way and the audience might think the movie is not real. Acting isn’t just about being good at making different faces, though. All the other things that are good acting are also done in Black Swan by Natalie Portman and the other girl. In a movie it is also important that everyone has the right clothes and makeup and even hairstyle, and maybe these important things are also considered acting. This is why I believe that many Oscars will be bestowed upon Black Swan, and if the Academy Awards Presentation for 2010 is something that has already happened, I am confident that many Oscars were, indeed, bestowed upon it.

I hope reading this review has given you some insight into Black Swan and how movies are made. I give this movie maximum burgers, but I honestly can’t imagine why you’d still go see it or download it or whatever if you actually read all of this.

Signing out,

D. Philip McToo-large-novelty-burger

]]>http://www.lovelyburger.com/?feed=rss2&p=1770Love and Other Drugs and a Review of Myself as An Audience Member by Dr. Mary T Burgershttp://www.lovelyburger.com/?p=175
http://www.lovelyburger.com/?p=175#commentsThu, 09 Dec 2010 18:18:14 +0000maryburgershttp://www.lovelyburger.com/?p=175Love and Other Drugs

starring Anne Hathaway’s boobs and Jake Gyllenhaal

directed by Edward Zwick

I’m pretty sure this movie was about a really hot but emotionally distant pair of tits that is afraid to commit because of their fear that no one will love them because of their terminal penchant for displaying themselves. Anne Hathaway’s mouth makes a cameo as the thing that screams “WHYYYYYYYYYYY” suddenly and overdramatically when she drunkedly drops a bottle of vodka. It’s supposed to be a moment that shows that the character the boobs are attached to is facing a terrifying loss of neurological control in her battle with early onset Parkinson’s, but people drinking almost an entire bottle of vodka are pretty likely to accidentally drop the bottle anyway, with or without Parkinson’s.

Jake Gyllenhaal is Jamie Randall, a happy-go-lucky playboy who loses his job selling high-tech stereo equipment and becomes a pharmaceutical rep. He is the black sheep of his family, even though his little brother happens to be a terrifying science experiment, the result of a DNA melding of Jonah Hill and Jack Black. He has a smart, uptight sister that he argues with at the dinner table and who is never seen again as she is just there to show the viewing audience that Jamie is so much different from everyone and lacks a moral compass, because only uptight bitches have those.

While Jamie desperately tries to shelf his samples in the office of an influential doctor, Hank Azaria as Dr. Why-the-Fuck-Are-You-In-This-I-Expected-Better-From-You,-Hank-Azaria, he ends up throwing out (why?) the samples in a dumpster every day, and as he does this we see a homeless man stealing them and becoming cleaner and eventually telling Jamie Randall that he has a job interview. We never see the homeless guy again, probably because Zoloft has made him into a human being. So thanks for throwing away the one potentially interesting (though immediately predictable) plot point this movie could have had, this movie.

Then Jamie meets Maggie Murdoch, the pair of boobs that are Anne Hathaway’s. She gets mad that he sees her boobs and she is frustrated and so world-weary because she has Parkinson’s and no one can help her and even though she somehow manages to pay for a loft in Chicago on the wages of a waitress working approximately one day a week, she is utterly cynical and unhappy. Also why the fuck would you be a waitress or barista if your hands were shaking all the time? Either way, her boss (one of two people of color in the film, neither of whom have any dialogue) is very forgiving because he lets her wallow at home for days on end, or make surprise trips to Canada, or bang Jamie Randall in a bathroom.

I shouldn’t explain how Maggie Murdoch and Jamie Randall got together because you already know, in your heart: she is mad that he did a thing, he wants to see the boobs more and is intrigued at her unavailability, she screams at him, he asks her out for coffee, banging ensues. And then they fall in love because they eat organic cereal together and the sex is no longer feral, because people in love only ~make love~. Then there are about a dozen montages of them playing in leaves or something. Then a conflict occurs, which is that Maggie doesn’t want to be Jamie’s girlfriend because then she’d lose the one facet of personality the movie attributes to her: her lack of availability. Then they break up and get back together.

The movie takes place in the 90s, to showcase the pharmaceutical boom that happened as a result of increased use of anti-depressants and the introduction of Viagra. The only way that you know it’s the 90s is that women are wearing florals and denim vests and people do the Macarena. I guess that’s the only way the 90s were different, though. It wasn’t a completely different time period in terms of the economy or the political climate or anything like that. NOPE NOT AT ALL.

Rating: 1 out of 6 burgers, for WHYYYYYYYYYYY, and for every time I was accurately able to predict a plot point before it happened

Because I was doing that. Out loud. Which leads me to my next review.

Myself as an Audience Member

starring me

I talked the whole time. The entire time. My friend and I went to the 10:15 PM showing on a Wednesday night. We sat in the front and the only other people there were sitting in the very back. And from the very first moment we did not shut our mouths.

Most of it was accurate predictions:

“SHE IS GONNA REBUFF HIM”

“SHE IS GONNA TAKE ISSUE WITH THE WORD GIRLFRIEND”

“THAT ASSHOLE IS GONNA BE HER EX-BOYFRIEND”

“HE WILL CHANGE HER WITH HIS ~LOVE~”

“THE HOMELESS GUY IS GONNA GET ALL CLEANED UP BECAUSE OF ANTI-DEPRESSANTS”

Some of them were not-so-accurate predictions:

“SHE IS GONNA DIE”

“SHE IS GONNA DIE IN THE STORE”

“SHE IS GONNA DIE ON THE BUS”

“HE IS GONNA GET A CALL AFTER HE BANGS THOSE GIRLS AND FIND OUT SHE DIED”

“THE HOMELESS GUY IS REALLY A PRIEST AND WILL MARRY THEM AT THE END”

I was also leaning over and making cynical comments at the same time that Maggie Murdoch, in the film, was leaning over to Jamie Randall and making cynical comments. And I made fun of her for it. I also made fun of her vintage robe while wearing a vintage sweater and vintage boots. I rolled my eyes at her eye-rolling.

“Newsflash: no one says newsflash”, I newsflashed at her newsflashing.

About ten minutes before the movie ended, the group of kids in the back got up to leave, and each in turn gave me a death glare, ostensibly because I ruined the movie for them. I was able to ruin a movie that already had a cut&paste script from every other romantic comedy and in which NOTHING HAPPENS.

So for that I suppose as an audience member, I deserve 0 out of 6 burgers.

Choosing snacks is a big deal to me. On the one hand, tadalafil I have an adventurous, seek some would say reckless, mouth-hole and I like to try new things. On the other hand, there is nothing worse than getting home only to learn that your new snack is gross, and you have to eat it all anyway because you don’t want to be a wasteful jerk. I’m personally partial to multi-tasking snacks, such as those wasabi-coated peanuts that are delicious and cure sinus infections, or pork rinds, which are delicious and also a potent anti-hangover agent (trust me). It was this partiality that led me to make a horribly, horribly inaccurate prediction: “Even if these cheeseburger flavored Doritos are gross, at least I can review them for Maryburger’s website.”

This prediction was wildly inaccurate because yes, they are gross, but no, I can’t properly review them for Maryburger’s website. They are so gross that the only way I could accurately describe them is to use such a constant stream of profanity and genital-related metaphors that, should Maryburger, her moms, or any of her mean ole sisters read it, I would never again be invited into the burger household. Even if I could use every obscene and filthy simile in my arsenal, I’m not sure I’d really be able to convey how I feel about these so-called chips.

I guess technically they’re called All Nighter Late Night Cheeseburger Doritos, or some damn thing, which clearly means that the Dorito’s people are in some sort of adjective arms race with the people that make Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper.

This is one of many Dorito “Late Night” flavors, such as Jalapeno Cat Poop and Xtreme Hobo Vomit. None of them are good, partially because they haven’t made the most obvious one (mozzarella stick Doritos.)

These abominations are called “Late Night” to confuse people with an inaccurate understanding of cause and effect: These chips are called “Late Night.” Parties generally occur late at night. Therefore, these chips must be a party. What these poor devils forget is that, yes, there are many parties late at night, however, at many of these parties, someone drinks too much and pees in your closet. And when you’re eating Doritos, your closet is your mouth. Eating cheeseburger Doritos is like having someone pee in your mouth, only worse, because you can’t videotape it and turn it into a meme.

Before I talk about flavor, I guess I should mention some of the things that cheeseburger Doritos do right. For instance… they come in a bag? Which is pretty good, but sort of de rigeur for snacks these days. But the bag sure does hold them in there, I guess. And they have that same general Dorito texture, that sort of deep fried corn paste that cracks open your fillings. So A++ for that.

Anyway. Onto the taste. What would a cheeseburger flavored chip taste like, I hear you ask? Cheese? Burger? I can see why you would think that, you ignoramus. Oh no. Cheeseburger chips taste like pickles. When I say that they taste like pickles, this might seem like a good thing, since pickles are pretty awesome. Except that these are chips, and chips should not taste like pickles. Especially if they’re advertised as tasting like burgers.

Normally, pickles are made by putting cucumbers in brine and letting them cure. I assume that the Doritos people tried putting these pickles on chips and it didn’t work. So instead they took some cucumbers and shoved them inside the gall bladders of leperous walruses, and those worked out fine. Because when I say that these chips taste like pickles, what I mean is that these chips taste like pickles that were brined inside the urinary tract of diseased Arctic fatslugs.

I should also mention that if you are a human being and you eat these, the suffering will not end at the taste. During my ‘research’ for this ‘article’ I ate a bag over the course of four days. That means that, for four days, I didn’t poop correctly. Because of these cheeseburger Doritos, I gained seven pounds in less than a week. I lost those seven pounds in less than two minutes.

Suffice it to say that these things are the worst. Eating Late Night All Nighter Cheeseburger Doritos is like someone urinating in your mouth, and their urine tastes like fresh-from-the-walrus pickles. They get one half of one burgers out of a possible six, and if anyone ever tells you they are good, they are probably a plumber that is trying to drum up business by tricking you into wrecking your toilet.

Mention wooder ice to anyone outside of Philadelphia and the following conversation ensues:

“Water ice? What’s that? Do you mean ice water?”

“No, it’s like… flavored ice that’s blended…”

“Oh like a sno cone?”

“No, sno cones are chunks of ice that have syrup on the top. It has a smoother consistency…”

“Oh like a smoothie?”

“No it’s icy and it doesn’t have yogurt or ice cream or anything creamy in it. It’s usually fruit flavored.”

“Wait so it’s not like a sno cone? So what’s water ice?”

It’s hard to explain to outsiders, but growing up in a suburb of Philadelphia, wooder ice (or “water ice”, or even “Italian ice” if you’re especially pedestrian) was always an essential part of the summer. We’d ride bikes for approximately five minutes, get pretty tired and sweaty since we were some chunky puppies, and need to be cooled down. Water ice was always a favorite option because it wasn’t messy and had a tendency to be more refreshing than cream-based ice treats (I can’t think of any examples of those at the moment but it’ll come to me). There were many smaller, Mom + Pop water ice places that bested the franchises in terms of taste and price, but for convenience and flavor variety, Rita’s has always been the go-to place.

Recently Rita’s started advertising their new Swedish Fish Italian Ice on Facebook, and it seemed to be a well-placed gimmick because they got the attention of their target market extremely effectively. In between updates consisting of the “What zodiac sign wuld u be if u didnt already have a zodiac sign”, “is ur favrite singer lady gaga”, and “what sex poisitin u” quiz results (THANKS, MOM), I saw many a status update talking about the new ice flavor. How, really, could water ice taste like Swedish Fish?

This morning my Associate Taste Tester Phil and I decided to give it a try, and we wondered if we should just get a sample first in case it was really gross. That question was answered for us by the extremely upbeat cashier, who immediately offered us a spoonful without us even prompting her to. It was relatively inoffensive, so we each ordered a kid’s size of it.

My first impression was that it somehow had an element of waxiness that Swedish Fish candy has, and that impressed me. It’s odd, but that waxy flavor is an integral part of the taste experience when eating Swedish Fish. It also had that primary flavor, the ambiguous floral-and-probably-cherry. It was far too sweet, however, and even a kid’s size was overwhelming. By the end of it I felt nauseous, but I guess it succeeded in its goal of being a water ice that tastes like Swedish Fish.

After purchasing the water ice, the cashier gave me a free sachet of Swedish Fish candy (just one– Phil didn’t get any!) What I realized– what I actually knew all along, in fact, was that Swedish Fish are mostly good because of their chewiness and because you can pretend like they are being carried by a tidal wave into your mouth. When you do that with water ice, it’s just stupid and it doesn’t make any sense.

2 out of 6 burgers

]]>http://www.lovelyburger.com/?feed=rss2&p=1681Last House on the um…not this side, but the other…like, if you’re facing this way, then I guess it’d be on this side, but it really depends on which way you’re going. Sorry, I’m terrible at directions. So where are you coming from again? by Prince TJ Burgershttp://www.lovelyburger.com/?p=163
http://www.lovelyburger.com/?p=163#commentsThu, 14 May 2009 02:36:47 +0000maryburgershttp://www.lovelyburger.com/?p=163A Review of Last House on the Left (2009)

By T J Burgers

As a fan of the original Last House, sick directed by Wes Craven, I felt that it was somehow my duty to seek out and watch this undoubtedly horrible remake. Wait, let me back up for a second. Maybe I shouldn’t have referred to myself as a “fan” of the original. I mean, that was a pretty fucked up movie guys. A “fan” implies a certain level of enjoyment that I’m not entirely comfortable with people knowing that I experienced while watching what amounted to constant emotional and physical brutality set to the tune of utterly inappropriate banjo ditties. So let’s try this again.

As a person who watched of the original Last House, directed by Wes Craven, I felt that it was my duty to seek out and watch this undoubtedly horrible remake, in much the same way a witness of a horrible crime may feel it is their duty to try and pick a guy out of a lineup. I have to admit my hopes weren’t very high for this one. Typical horror remakes gloss over the grit that made the originals special, and I assumed that this was going to be no different. But I was wrong (kinda, I mean, the movie overall is still pretty bad).

The basic story, ~SPOILER ALERT~ in both versions of the film, is that two young, innocent girls do OMGARIJUANA and as a result are both beaten, raped, and murdered by surprisingly vicious strangers. And that’s only the first half. The rest of the movie details how, coincidentally, our plucky team of murderous, insane adventurers end up staying with the parents of one of the newly deceased, with each party none the wiser, and then the inevitable hijinks that occur when the truth is revealed (a situation that should be all-too-familiar to readers who have experienced the joys of having roommates MIRITE).

The original wasn’t frequently violent, but when violence occurred it was extreme to the point that even the most rotten.com-hardened internet nerds would at least squirm uncomfortably while watching it. This is the aspect that I felt the remake would fall flattest in, but it’s perhaps the one aspect that it actually gets basically right. During the rape scene I almost jumped up from my seat and pumped a triumphant fist in the air, but then I thought for a moment and realized how inappropriate a reaction that would’ve been, and then felt a non-insignificant amount of shame for the rest of the film. I later sent myself to bed without dessert.

The problem, however, is that the new film almost glorifies or romanticizes the violence. The original film feels very bizarre, because the violence is generally framed in such a way that makes you feel like an actual observer. Not to mention in the end, after the final throes of gore, the remaining characters are left with a sound sense of “wtf”. But a gray-area approach to violence isn’t cool enough for 2009. There were at least two scenes where rent flesh was shown in extreme closeup just for shits and giggles, and every scene is played for some kneejerk emotional reaction (YAY-you-go-girl if it’s the vengeful parents, YAY-but-shame-on-you if it is the villains), and the ending dispenses with the “question” of the original, instead replacing it with a stupid ending-after-the-ending head-in-the-microwave take-that-you-bad-man bit of pointlessness.

In general, the remake pretty much sacrifices all of the emotional content of the original. The one “good” member of the murderin’ fam is even “gooder”, and is no longer held in thrall by drug addiction (though he should calm down on the wacky tabacky), no one who is good dies (the friend girl doesn’t count because she is a pothead who tempted the heroine into depravity, and thus deserves a sound fatal stabbing), and the only emotional lesson conveyed to the audience after the credits rolled is “dayum dey shure kilt dem sum bad guys right gud”.

Final Rating, 1 out of 5 burgers. It gets one for being accurate in a violent sense, but minus four for not having banjo ditties. I don’t actually give a shit about the other shit or whatever.